


Any Way You Want Me

by lemonlipbalm



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Messy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlipbalm/pseuds/lemonlipbalm
Summary: Saihara has said that his trust in Momota extends even into the hours where he's unconscious. Momota decides to appeal to that trust in a less than conventional way.





	Any Way You Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older draft I had that I'd almost forgotten about, until I saw some consensual somnophilia popping up in the tag and remembered how much that's my kink. So, I decided to finish and post it. I hope it appeals to some of you!

Saihara is beautiful always, Momota thinks, but tonight he finds himself particularly enthralled watching the other man sleep.

That's probably creepy. Had the two not been cohabiting for months and romantically involved for even longer, this would definitely make him a creep. But surely he isn't wrong to feel such warm fondness stirring in his chest as he observes the stable rise and fall of Saihara's. He isn't wrong for the smile that forms in response to the sleepy twitches of Saihara's facial muscles.

And he certainly can't be wrong for the hard-on filling his boxers, he tells himself.

That part isn't his fault. He’d woken up with that however many minutes ago, and now it won't go away. In fact, since he got distracted by Saihara it's begun to ache with a familiar need, which will no doubt make it near impossible to slip back into unconsciousness. Frustration begins to creep up through his gut and manifest as a heavy sigh through flared nostrils. _What the hell am I supposed to do about this?_

The fix should be easy enough, actually, and a part of him knows that. He knows that he could easily head to the bathroom and rub it out and probably sleep all the better for it. Still, a tugging in the back of his brain stops him, a compulsion that he's aware is fifteen different kinds of wrong. Saihara moves in his sleep, the blanket slipping from where it was already barely hanging off his side, and Momota's fingertips burn with the urge to touch him.

He compromises by grabbing himself through his boxers instead, sucking a breath in through his teeth. _Fuck._

It can’t be _too_ abnormal to be tempted by this sort of thing, right? Of course plenty of people find their partners attractive, even when asleep. This sort of thing is definitely common as far as sexually charged intrusive thoughts go, and he’s not a weirdo for palming himself and thinking about how much he’d rather grope Saihara instead. He’s not weird—at least, no weirder than Saihara himself is.

He squeezes his length with a soft hiss. That’s right, he realizes. Saihara is the one who put these thoughts into his head. Saihara is the one who had told him one night last week after they’d crawled into bed together, point blank: “If you ever want to, um, go at it when I’m not fully lucid, then… I don’t mind.”

Momota had balked at the notion. Where’s the appeal in an unresponsive partner? What’s the point if they can’t both enjoy it? But Saihara had smiled in that shy way he always does when he’s being earnest and said, “Whatever you want to do to me, it’s fine. Really. I trust you.”

He’d then joked that Momota should at least refrain from making a mess in his hair, and Momota had chuckled along with him and said he didn’t think that would ever come close to being a problem in the first place, and now he’s watching the barely detectable movements of Saihara’s soft lips and recalling how nice they always look dripping with evidence that Momota was there.

Momota chews the inside of his cheek. Trust is what it always comes down to. Trust is at the core of whatever turns Saihara on. Saihara means it when he says that Momota could do anything to him, because Saihara knows that Momota would never dream of hurting him anyway. And that much is true—Momota would rather walk on lit coals than do anything to upset his boyfriend.

That’s why he hesitates for a solid minute, rocking his hand back and forth over the clothed head of his dick. That’s also why he caves in the end, yanking his boxers down and snatching himself by the base with a half-swallowed groan.

His strokes are slow as he stares at Saihara, contemplating what to do next. He’d feel bad waking him up over something so trivial, so it can’t be anything too rigorous, he decides. Nothing that would make it hard for him to breathe, nothing that would move him around much, and nothing that would be difficult to clean up. Saihara’s legs shift, one knee bending over the other, thighs pressed together. Oh, what Momota wouldn’t give to get between them right now, to sink into his heat, but he acknowledges a bit disappointedly that that’s an unwise move.

With that in mind, he feels around aimlessly for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand, slapping the wood a few times before retrieving it and squirting a dollop into his palm. It gets summarily slicked over the surface of his cock, back and forth until there’s so little friction that he can hear every stroke, and he continues to think.

Penetration is out of the question. Grinding sounds good, though. A safe bet. As he tentatively scoots closer, his eyes rake down Saihara’s prone form, absorbing all the details he can pick out in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. 

He lies inelegantly curled on his side, back curved and calves tangled in the sheets. His hair is mussed, feathery strands falling into his face and fluttering slightly beneath the breaths spilling from his half-open mouth. Clad only in a loose T-shirt and boxers, he’s far from the picture of grace. Perhaps cute to the unbiased eye, more than anything else.

But Momota is biased, and Saihara Shuuichi is absolutely gorgeous.

There’s an embarrassing amount of spit pooling on Momota’s tongue right now. Hot in the face, he wets his lips with it and moves to draw their bodies together.

Except then Saihara mumbles something unintelligible, pulls an odd face, and rolls over onto his other side. Momota freezes, and after a split second, notices that he’s gripping his dick a bit too tightly. He curses under his breath and loosens his fist, waiting both for his pulse to grow quieter in his eardrums and for a confirmation that Saihara is still asleep.

The only further noise Momota hears from Saihara is slow, even breathing. He studies him briefly—the jut of his hip in his current position, and the way his clothes have ridden up with his tossing, exposing a milky sliver of his back and the smooth flesh of his thighs.

Momota has an idea.

As cautiously as though he were picking up glass shards, Momota skims his fingertips down Saihara’s side to thumb the waistband of his underwear. There’s a twitch, but no further reaction. Emboldened by this, he clutches the fabric and eases it down past his hips, stopping halfway to his knees. Still nothing. Momota takes a hard swallow and peers down, one hand bracing itself on the padded surface of Saihara’s thigh. Saihara might still get self-conscious at times over his legs and the other parts of himself that aren’t yet as firm as he’d like them to be, but the only thing Momota can think is how much he’d like to fit his face between them, or sink his teeth into one, maybe.

Now isn’t the time for that, though. Applying enough pressure to keep Saihara’s thighs flush, Momota uses the hand still wrapped around his own dick to slot himself between them.

He nearly chokes himself on the low moan that escapes him then. The motion is so effortless that it takes him by surprise, dizzying him momentarily. Saihara’s thighs are so warm, too, hugging him tight but not too tight, the give of them around him remarkable. He clenches his jaw, takes a couple seconds to reorient himself, and carefully starts to roll his hips.

It’s good, _really_ good, good enough to make Momota wonder why he’s never thought to take Saihara this way before. Lathered in lotion and precome, the glide is almost slippery, even awkward at first while he tries to find the right angle to thrust at without sliding out altogether. Once he’s more certain of himself, though, his hand closes harder around Saihara’s thigh, the other now finding a hold on Saihara’s opposite hip to keep him in place as he thrusts harder.

Minutes pass filled with little but the sounds of muffled grunts and skin smacking. It occurs to him somewhat belatedly and with a hint of guilt that even if he were to do this while Saihara was awake, Saihara would have little to gain from the act on its own. Saihara has little to gain from this as it stands now.

Momota is using him. Momota is using Saihara’s body without his awareness, and he’s enjoying it to a shameful extent. If anything, the sensation is even more electric than it usually is.

This understanding causes him to clench back another whine. Saihara is letting him do this. Saihara trusts him. The space between Saihara’s thighs is slicker than it was before. Saihara _trusts_ him. This is dirty, this is fucked up, this is so wonderfully intimate. Saihara trusts him enough to allow what would normally be considered a violation. Momota’s adrenaline spikes and swims in his head and drowns out every coherent thought, leaving only hot affection and hunger in its wake. He presses his forehead into Saihara’s shoulder, gasping, digging the pads of his fingers into the other man’s flesh with a muted desperation, fucking himself between his thighs faster, like he’s forgotten how to do anything else—

He fucks himself between Saihara’s thighs like he’s forgotten that Saihara can return to consciousness.

Saihara’s legs rub together as the rest of his body stirs. “Hnnh… Kaito?”

Momota lets out an abrupt, shuddering groan as his release paints Saihara’s skin.

They both lapse into silence, save for Momota’s panting. A buzz of satisfaction blankets him, but it doesn’t outlast the embarrassment of being caught in the act, and he’s almost afraid to peel himself away from Saihara because that will mean having to actually look at him.

Saihara shifts again slightly. His voice comes, a quiet, groggy, but still comprehending “Ah.”

“I-” Momota finds his own voice, stammering. “Fuck. M’sorry, Shuuichi, I-”

Saihara interrupts him, “It’s fine. You just surprised me, that’s all.” There’s no anger or even irritation in his tone. Instead his words are bewildered, and Momota thinks he senses a vaguely amused note, too. “If you’d woken me up, though, I could’ve… ah, taken care of that.”

Momota shakes his head. “I didn’t wanna wake you up for somethin’ like that. And I, uh, thought about what you said the other night. About how you wouldn’t mind if I… y’know.”

“I did mean that,” Saihara says. He pats the hand Momota has on his thigh as if in reassurance. “I wasn’t sure what you would do with that permission, but I really don’t mind at all.”

Relieved, Momota nestles his face further against Saihara’s shoulder blades. “Okay. Still sorry to wake you up, though.”

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I don’t mind sleeping through these sorts of things, but I don’t mind being woken up for them, either,” Saihara says. Gently, he tugs himself out of Momota’s hold, examining his lap. “Actually… if you’re going to make such a mess, maybe you should just wake me up first.”

It’s a joke, but Momota still says a tad defensively, “I wasn’t gonna just leave it like that.”

Saihara smiles. It’s kind, but also full of something Momota can’t identify. “I believe you,” Saihara says as he sits up, thighs parted just so. The heat comes back to Momota’s cheeks when he glimpses the stickiness glistening between them, and burns more fiercely with the realization that his mess is accompanied by Saihara’s own arousal. “Are you still going to help me clean this up?”

It’s not a question so much as a suggestion. A very bold, very inviting suggestion, much like the one that got them here in the first place.

And so Momota takes it—but not before lifting himself to kiss the smile right off Saihara’s pretty lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I have uh... *counts on fingers* around 5 unfinished drafts that may or may not get finished, because I'm much better at starting things than finishing them, lol. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, I love feedback! Comments, kudos, perhaps even the kind of stuff you all might like to see more of. And of course, thanks for reading!


End file.
